Respectfully yours,
Theodore Cruiks
As Gabriel had been bound for Town the next day, he’d planned to kill two birds with one stone: grant his son’s birthday wish and collect whatever item Octavian had left for him. The need to find the culprit behind his mentor’s death had been rooted in a sense of duty and loyalty tarnished but not destroyed by bad blood and the passing years.
The attack on Frederick, however, had made things personal. Whoever had tried to hurt his boy was going to pay.
Gabriel arrived at the appointed address, a brick storefront with a sign that identified it as Cruiks Circulating Library. He entered the premises to the soft tinkle of a bell; several patrons glanced his way before returning to their perusal of magazines and newspapers. A clerk stood behind the counter assisting customers. A lady with a flower-trimmed bonnet handed over a white card; after a quick exchange, the clerk exited through a green curtain and re-emerged minutes later with a book in hand.
Pretending to browse, Gabriel waited until the clerk was free before approaching the counter.
“Good day, sir,” the clerk said. “How may I be of service?”
Withdrawing the subscription card from his pocket, Gabriel laid it down upon the gleaming wood surface. The white card bore his name in elegant flourish.
“I believe you have an item of mine,” he said.
The clerk bowed low. “Very good, my lord.”
He made a trip through the curtain, returning moments later with a short fellow with wire-rimmed spectacles and brown hair greying at the temples.
“Welcome. I am Theodore Cruiks,” the proprietor said. “I understand you are inquiring about a biography. Any particular one you are interested in?”
Gabriel recognized the underlying request.
“Yes, I’m reading up on the Romans.” For the benefit of any eavesdroppers, he adopted the bored drawl of a gentleman with too much time on his hands. “Do you have anything on that old boy… the soldier who became an emperor? Whatwashis name, by Jove?” He drummed his fingers. “Ah, yes. Trajan. That’s it.”
“Indeed. A moment, if you please.” Cruiks went to the back of the store, returning with a plain brown volume which he placed on the counter. “This is a rare item, obtained through special auction from an anonymous source. The cost was significant. There was no way to trace its origins.”
Translation: a high-end fence. Cost: in the thousands of pounds. Seller unknown.
“Although it took many years to find, our mutual friend always believed it would resurface,” Cruiks went on. “I regret that he did not live to see it. The reading room is to the left if you wish to examine the item.”
Gabriel thanked the dealer. He found the reading area, empty save for a pair of ladies flirting with a dandy. They paid Gabriel no attention. He found a desk in the corner which put a wall against his back and a full view of the room before his eyes. Then he went to work opening the “book.”
His fingers skimmed the edges of the pages—wood carved to give the appearance of paper. He’d dealt with more than a few of these in his time. Within seconds, he located the hidden mechanism in the spine. A soft click and the cover released.
Gabriel’s heart thudded in recognition.
He ran a finger over the blade’s distinctive pattern, flowing water captured in steel. He knew that his hand and the hilt would fit together like puzzle pieces. If he removed the two knives from the halter beneath his jacket and put it next to this one, the three would be a perfect, lethal match.
This was his missing dagger. From the set of six Octavian had given him years ago, before his first mission.Damascus steel is a lost art, and this is a rare surviving set. Use it well, Trajan. His mentor had spoken with a gruffness that might have been pride.You’re ready now to defend your country.
Gabriel’s mind whirred, buffering shock, distilling the facts. The last time he’d seen this knife was Normandy. When he’d sent it flying into the Spectre’s chest. Somehow this dagger had survived the explosion and gotten out of the inferno.
His mentor’s voice played in his head.Without proof, we don’t know he’s dead… he’s survived blades, fire, explosions before…he’s walked away from death more times than I can count…
This was what Octavian had been after the whole time: the proof that now lay in front of Gabriel. The French spymaster who was ultimately responsible for the death of countless British officers and agents—including Marius—was still alive.
Et tu, Brute?
The chill settled deep in Gabriel’s bones. Only one kind of betrayal would cut Octavian that deeply.It explained so much. How the Spectre had been able to get access to secrets. How the other had seemed to know British intelligence inside out. How the bastard had always been able to stay one step ahead.
The grim conclusion stared Gabriel in the face.
Not only did the Spectre live, he—or she—was a double agent.
One of the Quorum.
